


“Rose of the World”

by Bibanana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied homophobia, Johnlock - Freeform, Mary death, Multi, Next Generation, Not Rated because it could be G but there’s drinking and stuff so does that make it T?, Rosie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibanana/pseuds/Bibanana
Summary: John is still haunted by Mary’s death, Sherlock is still waiting for John to move on, Rosie is concerned about them and wants them both to be happy, but all the while, she is having her own problems.
Relationships: Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson/Original Male Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	“Rose of the World”

**Author's Note:**

> Most, but not all, of the characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This version of the characters are from the TV show Sherlock created by Moffat and Gatiss.

Rosie stood on the bridge, overlooking the water. A gust of wind blew past causing the blue scarf she stole from Sherlock to whip in her face. Come to think of it, she had never told her dads she was leaving the flat. She smiled to herself at the generalization. Rosie only had one dad, John Watson, but she had been raised by him and his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. She called Sherlock by his first name, but when she thought of the pair together, they were her dads. Her mother, Mary, had died when she was a baby. John only ever talked about her when he was comparing how similar she was to Rosie. But Sherlock told her how she died. She had been shot, he said. Taking a bullet for him. He had told her that her mother as the bravest woman he had ever known.

“Hey, Detective.” A familiar voice called from behind her.

“Nick.” She turned around, grinning. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that. I don’t do that stuff like my dad. Sherlock and him hardly ever even have cases anymore.”

“Yeah, okay, but your dad is _Doctor John Watson_ for god’s sake. You were raised by Sherlock bloody Holmes! You practically passed the detective test in secondary school.”

They’ve had this argument before. It honestly didn’t bother Rosie that much if he called her detective, so she always gave in. She appreciated that he didn’t automatically assume Sherlock was her dad. He was pretty much the only one. It was actually what caught her attention in the first place.

“Come here.” She summoned. He joined her and she nestled into his classic jean jacket.

“You should cut your hair.” Nick said, running a hand through his own ruffled fiery red locks. “Your face is so pretty.”

This was another conversation that had often. As expected, seeing as both John and her mother were blond, Rosie had shoulder length golden-blonde hair. But what made most people think she must be somehow related to Sherlock were her eyes. Rosie, like Sherlock, had gorgeous, complex, intelligent eyes. They were usually a brilliant blue, but seemed green or grey in different lights. They had both been diagnosed with a condition called heterochromia iridis. John said it was meant to be. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said that the idea of destiny was created for the family idiot to have a sense of hope that there was a plan for them in the end and, though the universe was rarely ever so lazy, this was a coincidence.

“But I like my hair.” She said. It was her automatic response. She answered the same every time.

Rosie noticed that the sun was starting to set. “I should get back.” She said, pulling herself from Nick's arms. “Before they call Greg to send the entire police force after me.” She laughed. “See you tomorrow? Ice cream?”

Nick smiled slyly. “Maybe something a little stronger than ice cream.”

Rosie shoved him away playfully. “We're seventeen. No, I will not go drinking with you.” She started walking off.

“Icecream, then!” He called after her.

“6:00, Scoops at Sunrise. Meet you there.” She called back, not breaking pace.

Rosie hurried up the steps, the night sky closing in behind her. Mrs. Hudson met her halfway.

“Oh, thank goodness you're here, dear. Sherlock's been so worried.” She said with an embrace.

She smiled at the idea of Sherlock being worried, hoping he hadn't broken anything. The wall might have suffered. Her smile faded. “Sherlock was worried?” Sherlock only ever worried when John wasn't there to do the worrying.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand. “John hasn't left his room all day, Rosie. You know what day it is.” She said sympathetically.

Rosie swore loudly, causing Mrs. Hudson to gasp. How could she have forgotten? She leapt up the rest of the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson, and burst through the door.

It was the sixteenth anniversary of her mother’s death.

She stumbled up to Sherlock’s armchair. “I’m so sorry.” She said breathlessly.

He turned to look at her. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a few days. “Rosamund Mary Morstan Watson.” He didn't shout. Sherlock didn't shout unless he was high and that didn't happen very often anymore. “Going out without telling us on the hardest day of the year for your father.” When Sherlock was in serious parenting mode he didn’t sound like himself. He didn’t sound like himself when he was defending John.

“I-I’m sorry. Where is he? Should I go see him?”

“He’s in our room, but I think he would prefer to be left alone. He’s probably listening to us right now, so he knows you’re home. Now, go on, I can’t entertain you all night. I’m thinking.”

Rosie went into her room feeling horrible about herself. She sucked at being a daughter.

For her 13th birthday, John and Sherlock had agreed to move John’s bed into Sherlock’s room so that Rosie would have a room to herself. Sherlock usually passed out in his chair at about 2 AM anyway.

Picking up her phone, she saw that Nick had left her a text.

**hi**

He really could not leave her alone, could he?

 **_Hi_ ** she responded

He wrote back almost immediately. **Wat r u doing**

**_Sitting on my bed texting u_**

**Same**

**_Lol_ **

**Mum's calling me gtg ttyl**

**_Bye c u tomorrow_ **

**Bye**

Rosie was pretty tired so she decided to get in bed. She forgot to brush her teeth.

_She was eight years old again. It was the anniversary of her mother’s death. John had been doing pretty well the past few years. But Sherlock had just been shot. On the worst day he could have been. It wasn’t fatal or anything, shoulder shot, but it set him off._

_“You could’ve died!” He shouted, waving a beer bottle in the air._

_“No, John, I couldn’t have.” Sherlock replied calmly, taking the bottle._

_“She gave her life for you, and you go and get yourself shot. Like it was_ nothing _.”_

 _“John, listen to me. Whenever I am acting like this with cigarettes or drugs, you help me out. Now,_ Rosie, _your eight year old daughter, is standing right over there. Let me help you out.”_

_John swung his fist drunkenly at Sherlock. Sherlock caught his wrist and used his other hand to pin him against the refrigerator. She saw him wince. That was his injured shoulder. “Rosie!” Sherlock called over his shoulder. “Go in my room, now.”_

Rosie woke up in a cold sweat. That time, she had stayed in Sherlock’s room all night. After a while, Sherlock had come in and tucked her into his bed. Then he left again. When she awoke the next morning, Sherlock was making breakfast. Had she been older, she would have noticed this impressive feat. But it seemed ordinary at the time. John came out a bit later and given them both a big hug. They had eaten breakfast in silence. Shortly afterwards, John and Sherlock officially retired from any potentially dangerous or life threatening cases and only partook in ones where Sherlock just had to examine the body or not even require leaving the flat. John rarely had to assist in these particular jobs, so he assumed a full time occupation at the clinic.

Rosie lay awake for a while longer but eventually dozed off into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This got a little darker than I expected. Please comment ways to make Sherlock sound a bit more like himself. I’m struggling a little with that. More is on the way, and if you liked it, a kudos would make my day.


End file.
